


Suddenly Last Summer

by chewysugar



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Best Friends, Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Come Eating, Friends With Benefits, Hand Jobs, Horny Teenagers, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Public Hand Jobs, Public Nudity, Skinny Dipping, Very Mild Discovery Kink, Very mild pain kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-08-27 00:36:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8380903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewysugar/pseuds/chewysugar
Summary: Harry is bereft following the fight that forced Ron to leave the horcrux hunt. Wandering through the forest on a cold autumn morning he remembers a hot summer day when he and Ron crossed a line--a day that Ron showed him that he could know happiness, if just for a little while.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of things inspired this story, not least of which was the song "Suddenly Last Summer," by The Motels. I'd recommend giving it a listen.

It was a clear sign of how the morbid had become a part of Harry’s emotional lexicon that he found the decay of the Earth a beautiful, almost energizing, thing. He woke with cold snaking around his exposed ankles; a crisp smell of wet, decaying leaves filling his nose. It stifled the musty aroma of Perkins’ tent, but did nothing to drive away the ache in his bones and the grey in his heart.

For a long time he lay beneath his blankets, listening to the sounds of the wind as it whistled through the trees. Across from him, he could hear Hermione’s steady, shallow breathing. As had been his habit since that miserable rainy evening, he automatically strained his ears to listen to the sounds of Ron’s grunting snores. But there was nothing, because Ron was gone.

Feeling wretched but not at all in the mood to lay there with his own miserable feelings, Harry rolled out of bed. Slytherin’s locket was dangling from Hermione’s neck—she must have removed it from round his some time in the night, because Harry distinctly remembered wearing it when he’d been keeping watch.

He felt a stab of pity. The awful weight and insinuating darkness of the damnable horcrux wasn’t something he’d have wished on his worst enemy…at least his worst enemy from his first six years at Hogwarts. Hermione had not once complained about the burden she’d been sharing; in fact, as Harry silently dressed for the autumnal chill, he realized that until that awful night, neither of his best friends had so much as rolled their eyes at all they’d been burdened with.

All that he had made them lose in this quest to defeat Voldemort.

Kicking on his shoes, Harry quietly stole from the tent. The bare aspen trees surrounding their tent rose from a fine morning mist, looking ghostly with their silver bark and bare branches. Light was creeping across the earth, pale and faint. Looking heavenward, Harry saw that the sky was a sheet of grey cloud.

He breathed in the smell of deep autumn—of the dying leaves and the withdrawing warmth—of the wild, woodsy trees and the pungent moss. Leaves rustled and fell to the ground in rivulets of gold and brown and red. Harry thought of how different this time the previous year had been—how he’d often come to associate that crisp smell and the cozily chill days with the sweet spice of Hagrid’s pumpkins and mugs of frothy butterbeer.

The nostalgia was eclipsed almost instantaneously by bitter regret.

If only he’d been smarter. If only he’d openly challenged Malfoy last term. If only his stupid temper hadn’t driven Ron off.

If only, if only, if only.

A sighed curse escaped Harry’s lips and he made away from the tent. Foraging would be far better than looking through the mist and waiting for the ghostly faces of the Death Eaters.

Or for a familiar freckled face that, for all Harry knew, would never return again.

He dug in the earth for berries and mushrooms, anything that could be eaten that wouldn’t poison he and Hermione. The strong, loamy smell transported Harry to the greenhouses, to days toiling under the safe glass panes as Professor Sprout encouraged everyone to repot a venomous tentacula. The dirt reminded him, too, of the only home he’d ever known, one that he’d brought disaster to by simply existing. He missed the Burrow—he missed everything from those days at Hogwarts before Dumbledore’s death—missed it so much that at times he wanted to scream from it, to bleed, to pound his fists against something hard until his skin tore and the bones in his fingers splintered.

But there was no escaping reality. No escaping the damage that had been done to the world that had saved him when he’d been eleven years old and skinny and scared.

Try as he might, his thoughts came back to Ron. It had been Ron, after all, who had introduced him to the Wizarding World. Ron who had taken a seat in Harry’s compartment on a hot September day, not knowing that a bond forged in fire would be made between himself and the workaday, bespectacled boy sitting opposite him.

Not knowing that his new best friend would spell doom for everything and everyone that they knew.

Harry curled his fingers around a wild fern. Ron had pointed it out to him and Hermione as edible when they’d first come to the Forest of Dean. Harry tugged at the roots, pulling, savoring the feeling of his fingers blistering as they curled around the rough tendrils of the plant. Ron would have helped him; Ron would have reminded him that he was a wizard, was of age, and that he could carry on pulling up vegetables like a Muggle if he wanted, but he would be using his wand like a normal wizard.

Ron would laugh. Ron would go back to the tent with him, pointing out the needless cuts on Harry’s fingers.

Ron.

 _Ron_ …

Harry tumbled backwards, leafy prize gripped between his cut and dirtied fingers. He panted, staring through the mist. And, tired of running from the pull of memory, he let his mind drift as he collapsed onto the damp earth.

The chill turned to a warm breeze; the scent of dying earth gave way to sweet honeysuckle and apple blossom and briny lake water. Autumn disappeared, and he was at the Burrow, the only care in his mind that of Sirius’s death and the weight of that damnable prophecy.

He was lying on his back at the bank of a large pond. It was the summer before Sixth Year. A rare sunny day had broken through the ugly fog, and Harry, determined to enjoy it, had marched up the hill overlooking Ottery St. Catchpole to fly and langour under the scorching summer sun.

Compared to many other summers, this had been pure bliss, even with all the news of disappearances and deaths in _The Daily Prophet_. Even though he’d finally bit the bullet and told Ron and Hermione just what the prophecy had said, there was still a weight about him, not at all helped by the approach of term.

Harry slung his Firebolt off his shoulder, mounted it and kicked off from the ground. In the first rushing moments, he wanted to clear the top of the orchard and fly high as the sky. But with the Muggles in the village below, he knew it wasn’t wise. So he contented himself to circle over the broad surface of the pond, dipping close enough to trail his fingers through the water. He weaved between the trees as close he dared to the edge of the orchard, happy, for once, to not have to think about anything other than the freedom of flying.

When he flew back into the clearing in the middle of the apple trees, he saw that it wasn’t as empty as he’d left it. Ron was standing on the green, green grass, the warm breeze rustling through his fiery hair. He stared up at Harry, who lapped over the glassy surface of the pond once more before he came to land.

Ron, who had his own broom over his shoulder, gave Harry a broad grin. “Figured I’d find you up here,” he said. “Can’t even wait two weeks without getting the jump on the rest of the team, huh, _Potter_?”

“I’m captain now, _Weasley_ ,” Harry returned Ron’s grin. “And the way I see it, most of the other players have had two months to practice out in the open while we’ve been holed up here.”

“Your eyes aren’t the only thing green now.” Ron mounted his broom. “Envy doesn’t look good on you, mate. Besides, Mum has barely let us out of the house long enough to do anything other than feed the pigs.”

“But she’s letting you out now.”

Ron snorted. “Only because she, Ginny, Hermione and Fleur are all cooing over wedding dresses in _Witch Wedding Weekly_. Good thing too. I’ve about had it with Mum being afraid of being alone with Fleur for two minutes at a time. Fancy a game?”

They took to the air. Without a Quaffle, Bludgers or Snitch, Harry and Ron took turns throwing apples for each other to chase and catch. Given that Harry’s Firebolt outstripped Ron’s Cleansweep, Harry reined in his speed the better to make things even. The sun beat down on their necks as they flew. After almost an hour of chasing apples, Ron and Harry were both sweaty and nearly slipping off their brooms.

It was mundane, and yet Harry wasn’t about to complain.

“I’m parched,” Harry rasped as he touched down. His hair was damp from sweat and falling into his eyes.

“Yeah,” Ron said. Sweat was dripping from the end of his long nose. “I should have brought some lemonade with us.”

Harry slung his Firebolt over his shoulder and made to leave the orchard, but Ron called him back. “Unless you want your bollocks jinxed to your forehead, you’ll cool off up here. Mum’ll do her nut if you go dripping sweat on anything inside at the moment.”

Grimacing, Harry dropped his broom. His face was flushed from the heat. “Terrific,” he said.

“Don’t worry about it, mate. We’ll just go for a swim and dry off. Fred, George, Bill, Charlie and me do it all the time on summer holidays.” Ron dropped his broom and stripped off his t-shirt. “Er, mind the south end of the pond,” he added. “There’s an old kelpie down there with a nasty disposition.”

It wasn’t the worst opportunity to present itself. Harry peeled his t-shirt over his head, grateful to feel the breeze on his skin, even if it was warm and didn’t do much to cool him down. He kicked his trainers off and stooped to pull off his socks when he noticed that Ron, walking towards the edge of the pond, was naked as the day he was born, his clothes in a messy pile on the grass.

They’d been changing in the same dormitory for five years. Harry and Ron had carried on entire conversations while under the showers in the Gryffindor team change rooms before and after every Quidditch game and practice. Between The Burrow and Grimmauld Place, the two of them had dealt with the affects of puberty in the same space, one or the other accidentally waking up to the other in the middle of a wank or a wet dream.

Seeing Ron naked as he walked towards the pond struck something in Harry, like the chord of a harp being abruptly plucked. Maybe it was the bright light of the sun, making Ron’s pale, freckly skin look like dappled marble. Or maybe it was as simple as teenage sexual frustration. Harry, after all, had had to contend with mixed feelings for Cho Chang and a certain someone else in The Burrow.

So, thinking nothing of it beyond a momentary pause, Harry pulled off his socks and decided to follow suit and walk stark naked to the refreshing water. Ron cannonballed into the pond, sending a tremendous splash over the edge that caught Harry full on. Harry breathed a sigh of relief at the refreshing feeling, and plunged into the water before Ron surfaced.

It was pure and utter bliss, and Harry let himself sink almost to the bottom before rocketing upwards. The breeze playing across the pond was still warm, but Harry didn’t feel it as he had on the shore. His hair fell across his eyes, and he parted it just in time to see Ron submerged up to his shoulders, treading water several feet away

“Bad form,” Ron said with a lazy grin. “Maybe next time try some gillyweed. It did wonders for you when you dove into the lake.”

“So I’m not an Olympic diver, sue me.” Harry returned Ron’s grin. “And I only did that to save your skinny arse.”

Ron looked over his shoulder and down. “Hey! I think I’ve got a nice arse.”

“Neville been giving you compliments, mate?”

Harry got a face full of pond water for that courtesy of Ron slashing his arm through the surface. Never one to be outdone, Harry retaliated and eventually found himself fighting a water war with his best friend.

“If I had my wand,” Ron said after Harry got him with a barrage of water for the third time in a row, “you’d be in for a world of hurt.” Sticking his tongue out in petulant victory, Harry raised his fist, prepared to unleash another tremendous splash. But before he could let it fall, Ron disappeared beneath the water.

“Coward!” Harry yelled. He scoured the pond, unable to see through the murky surface. A familiar cello strain ran through his head, and he briefly entertained the neurotic idea that a great white shark would sink its teeth into his legs. A moment later, something did indeed seize him by his calf. Harry yelped and was pulled under water. For one split second he thought that the kelpie Ron had warned him about had seized him in its jaws. But upon opening his eyes, the only thing Harry saw through the leaden depths was the blurry outline of pale skin and a shock of red hair disappearing as Ron swam away.

Kicking back to the surface, Harry glowered at Ron, who was reclining against the shore again quite at his ease. “Swim much?” Ron said.

“Laugh all you want,” Harry replied. “I could have drowned.”

“Oh dear,” Ron sighed. “Did I nearly kill The Chosen One? Then who would be left to face You-Know-Who?”

Harry grimaced, feeling the carefree elation of the afternoon melt into an uncomfortable puddle in his stomach. He hadn’t given Voldemort or the prophecy a moment’s thought since he’d come to the orchard. Now it seemed as if the full weight had once again been dropped onto his shoulders, only heavier in that he’d forgotten it was there to begin with.

Ron seemed to realize that he’d erred; he straightened and gave Harry an apologetic look. “Sorry, mate,” he said. “Didn’t think before I spoke.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, “sure.” No longer in the mood to swim, he kicked his way back to shore and flopped down on the grass, the better to let the sun dry him off. With his arm flung over his glasses, he heard rather than saw Ron follow him pondside. A moment later and the space next to him was filled by his friend’s tall, lanky form.

There was silence for a moment, broken only by the whisper of the warm breeze through the trees that surrounded them. Sparrows chirped as they flitted from branch to branch, and bees buzzed somewhere within the orchard. From far away came the clucking of chickens. They were familiar sounds, sounds of home, but lying there with the sun rapidly drying his wet, naked body, Harry felt as if he were a million miles away, and not anywhere pleasant either.

Harry let his arm fall to his side and glanced sideways. Ron’s face was to the sky, his eyes closed. He could have been asleep if it weren’t for the even rise and fall of his chest. Again, Harry felt that strange plucking of some mysterious strand within him, something that seemed natural but also incredibly alien. Without really knowing why, he tilted his head a fraction of an inch to the side, his eyes traveling up and down his friend’s exposed body.

Puberty had been kind to Ron Weasley, something that Harry had never really appreciated before in spite of years of close quarters. He himself had always been dwarfed by Ron, but he’d always thought of Ron’s height as something awkward. Now he saw that Ron was less lank and lean—he’d practiced hard for his role as Keeper on the Quidditch team and it showed in the strength in his arms and torso. Harry couldn’t stop staring, couldn’t stop the path his eyes were traveling from Ron’s chest and further down, down to the trail of dark ginger hair. It was as if Harry were drinking in Ron’s body: he couldn’t tear his eyes away, and he felt a burning fire creep into his face as he registered through the sudden tumult of feeling that he was plainly ogling his best mate’s authentic English sausage.

And he was also feeling an all-too familiar jerk around his navel. Tearing his eyes away from Ron’s body, Harry stared up at the sky, flooded with embarrassment and confusion.

“Alright, Harry?” Ron’s voice broke the silence, and Harry forced himself not to look over.

“Fine,” he said. “Just, er, trying to find shapes in the clouds.”

Ron sat up, bracing himself on one arm. “Clouds,” he laughed. “Are you going daft, mate? The sky hasn’t this clear all summer!”

Harry could have kicked himself. “Just thinking, I guess,” he amended. He felt the threatening hardness subside, and his breathing returned to normal as he forcibly reminded himself that this was just Ron—Ron, whom he’d seen in his altogether plenty of times.

There was silence again. Ron was still sitting up. Harry wildly wished that Ron would shift his leg to hide his modesty, but there was no such luck. Because Ron wasn’t sick in the head the way Harry was. Ron had a normal grasp on his hormones.

“You shouldn’t think so much.”

Harry finally made himself look Ron’s way, and fortunately his gaze went straight to Ron’s face and not his naked body. Ron’s eyes were distant, staring at something far away that Harry could only guess at.

“It’s summer holiday,” Ron went on, plucking idly at the grass. “And—I dunno, I just think you’ve got enough to worry about. Wouldn’t kill you to relax just a little bit.”

“You can say that again,” Harry sighed. Of course, now it wasn’t just the prophecy and the start of term. Now it was that strange note within him that seemed to be striking over and over again whenever he caught a glimpse of Ron’s bare skin or got a whiff of his scent on the breeze—a scent like freshly cut grass and pond water and musk.

Ron took a deep breath. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to…” He was staring at his lap, still picking at the grass and spreading it into little piles on the ground. “But if you do have to, y’know, talk about anything…well, you can tell me. Uh, if you want too…”

Harry looked again, and this time he let himself look longer, allowed himself to take in the sight of Ron’s body again. It proved to be a dooming task, because before he’d even gotten past Ron’s waist he felt heat rush to his groin. In a frantic attempt to change the subject he said hastily, “It’s just hard.”

Eyes blue as the sky above shifted sideways. Ron grinned and said, “That looks to be about the shape of it, eh?”

Harry felt as if he could have died from embarrassment. He squeezed his eyes shut, but Ron only laughed. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Not like I haven’t seen it before. Besides, neither of us are exactly making a killing in the love department.”

“I don’t know if I ever will.”

The words were out of Harry’s mouth before he knew he’d spoken them, and the profundity hung in the air like a vapor. He forgot, for the moment, about lying in the grass naked with Ron. He saw a strange series of images swim before his vision—a rapid film of all the events that had landed him here: the Dursley’s, that fateful letter; facing Quirrell in front of the Mirror of Erised. He saw himself at twelve stabbing a diary that bled ink like blood, at thirteen fighting for one happy memory to save the soul of someone he would lose less than two years later. He saw his face change; the promise and hope that had been ignited in his eyes upon learning there was a way out turn shadowed and haunted, his mouth in the beginnings of a permanent despondency.

For the first time he felt too young for his own life. It had only been five years since Hagrid had taken him from the hell of a home he’d known since he was a baby, and yet he felt stretched, as if he’d been secured to one of those old Inquisition torture racks.

Ron sat up straighter, and though his leg finally shifted to hide his lower half, Harry felt that the change wrought even more havoc on his senses in that it was titillating in what it hid from his wandering eyes.

“Bollocks,” Ron said determinedly. “You’ve got loads of time left to…I mean, you’ve already got Cho Chang under your belt.”

Harry snorted. “Yeah. One kiss under the mistletoe and then she turned out to be a snotty little Ministry pet.”

“Well you’re still doing better off than I am,” Ron muttered. “Besides, you’re only sixteen Harry. You’re not running out of time.”

“Thing is,” Harry said, choosing his words slowly and carefully, “I sort of think I am. I mean, you know what that prophecy said now: it’s got to be either me or him.”

“Yeah, but that could be years from now. You Know Who hasn’t made too many open attempts.” Ron frowned and added, almost as an afterthought, “Well, aside from the Dementors breeding and all those Muggles being killed. And the giants in the West Country and…” His voice trailed off, and the lines in his face deepened.

Harry didn’t much feel like disabusing Ron of the comfortable notion he’d formulated about Harry’s fate. Still, he couldn’t help but say, still looking at the sky overhead, “He isn’t going to wait. Didn’t seem to care about going after me as a baby. So what does it matter to him if I kick the bucket before I turn seventeen?” A painful lump came to his throat and he swallowed it down. His voice shook as he went on, “What has he ever cared if he kills someone before they’ve had a chance to live? Or love. There’s so many things I want to do…so many things I have left to do and now it looks like—

Whatever it looked like Harry never quite got to. Ron’s hand fell against the top Harry’s thigh. It was meant to be some kind of quietening slap, and though it did stop Harry dead mid-sentence, it also had the profound effect of striking that thing buried inside him, especially given that Ron didn’t move his hand away. His best friend was several inches away from touching a part of Harry’s body that only Harry himself had ever had access to, and the simple intimacy made him feel momentarily devoid of air.

“Hey,” Ron said, his voice sharp and low, too low for Harry to feel entirely comfortable under present circumstances. “Not a chance in Hell, alright?” Against his better judgment, Harry let himself look up at Ron, into blue eyes that were far wiser than anyone had ever given him credit for. It struck Harry then how much everyone, himself included, underestimated Ron Weasley. Ron played the fool so often—the disaffected, smart aleck—that nobody seemed to realize there was more to him than what was on the surface.

Now, unable to tear his gaze away from Ron’s face, and with the warm, calloused weight of Ron’s hand on his bare skin, Harry felt as if he were seeing him for the first time in his life. The thrill was unlike any other, almost that of speeding through the air on his Firebolt for the first time. It was terrifying, too terrifying, and he madly wanted to push Ron’s hand away, to point out the fact that it wasn’t on for a bloke to have his hand on his best mate when they were both stark naked under the sun.

Unable to think about anything other than the nearness he managed a stammered, “R-Ron?”

“You’re going to beat him.” Of course Ron was still oblivious to what Harry thought was happening—what he both wanted and didn’t want to happen.

Determined to tread the line, Harry swallowed and said, “I’m not exactly in the lead for smartest moves. Otherwise there would be a lot more people among the living right now…”

“Not your fault,” Ron said. “Okay, so you’re not as smart as Hermione. But guess what, she doesn’t have the instinct you’ve got, mate. It’s what makes you such a damn good Seeker. It’s what’s kept most of us alive since You Know Who first started having a go for your life.”

“But what if—

“Rot!” Ron actually tightened his grip on Harry’s thigh, his fingers digging into Harry’s skin. And what was even more startling to Harry aside from the pressure was that he actually found he liked the mild pain of it to some degree. His face went even redder as he felt himself reach a painful hardness.

And Ron still seemed thoroughly unaware of Harry’s predicament.

“When is it going to get through that thick Savior skull of yours that you’re actually capable of occasionally not mucking things up? None of what’s happened to you is your fault, Harry. None of it. Maybe you can’t see it, but the rest of us have. We’re on your side Harry—almost everyone is, and I don’t go around being on the side of people I don’t believe in.”

Stunned silent both by Ron’s words, the pressure of his hand and the fierce light in his eyes, Harry couldn’t do anything other than stare back at him. He wanted to fight back, to give some kind of lame protest about how Ron was wrong about him. But something in the back of his confused mind told him that that defense mechanism wouldn’t work this time.

Not on Ron, anyway.

Harry shifted, not knowing what else to do with himself, and the act of doing so made the head of his rigid cock brush against the back of Ron’s knuckles.

Ron’s eyes shifted slightly downwards. His ears turned as red as his hair. Unconsciously it seemed, he stuck his tongue out and licked his lips. There was a slight, almost amused tremor to his voice as he said, “Always figured you were a hair-trigger.”

Harry managed to muster enough energy to sit up, pushing Ron off as he did so. He was humiliated, at himself for having reacted in such a way and for entertaining that nearly intangible notion that had blossomed within him when he’d seen Ron strip down.

He made to stand up, but Ron caught him by the shoulder, freezing him in the action. Long, calloused fingers held Harry firm, increasing the pressure in his groin. Ron shuffled closer, his long legs spread out either side of Harry’s body. Out of everything Harry had faced in his life, this seemed to be this most insurmountable—more terrifying than facing a swarm of Dementors or being tied to a gravestone and witnessing the murder of a classmate and friend.

Slowly, as if afraid he would scare Harry off, Ron slid his free hand down Harry’s side, brushing over his ribs and down to a spot just over his navel. Harry’s breath hitched; Ron’s fingers were centimeters away from his hard length—he felt as if he were in a dream, one from which he wanted to both awaken from and sink into forever.

“It’s okay.” Ron said it calmly, as if trying to convince himself as much as Harry, almost as if he were realizing it for the both of them. “Er…it is, isn’t it?”

Harry wanted to speak, but couldn’t because he didn’t know if the right words would come out. All he knew was that there was an overwhelming part of this connected to that secret switch that had been flipped on that wanted this more than anything in the world, if just to see how it would feel to have this for even a moment.

So he stilled, relaxing, letting himself be touched, and Ron took Harry’s stillness as a cue to proceed.

With aching slowness he wrapped slightly trembling fingers around Harry’s length. Harry gasped at the sensation—it was so strange, given that it was a basic touch that he’d administered to himself many times before. Fingers around hard, aching skin—he should have been used to it, but given that it was someone else’s hand—that it was Ron’s hand moving up and down with careful, tentative strokes—it felt better than even the warmest memory.

He could feel Ron’s breath against his neck, warm and unsteady. It occurred to Harry that maybe Ron hadn’t been as oblivious to his stares as he’d thought—that maybe Ron wanted this in that strange way as much as Harry had.

“Good, right?” Ron tried to sound noncommittal, as if there was nothing to wanking off your best mate in broad daylight. Harry grunted in response, looking dead ahead into the thick trees. Ron seemed to take Harry’s line of vision as an offense; he trailed the hand on Harry’s shoulder to the back of his neck and gently made him look down. There was something about the sight of that big hand around his cock that made Harry feel momentarily dizzy—there was no way of pretending that there wasn’t some weight to what was happening—to the immense feeling of pleasure and rightness that spread through his body as Ron worked his fingers up and down, slicking Harry’s length with his own blooming wetness.

Harry’s heart was pounding a rapid beat against his chest. He tilted his head back as he felt something blinding hurtling towards him. Ron’s shoulder, broad and strong and stalwart, provided the perfect resting place. Harry turned his face into Ron’s neck, breathing in the smell of his skin as Ron continued to stroke him up and down, up and down. Harry wanted to put his lips to Ron’s throat, to taste him, to lick his warm skin. But this was already such a leap across the chasm of friendship—or at least the part of his brain riddled with fear told him that it was—and if he went any further he felt that there would be too much damage done to ever return from.

An all too familiar storm was brewing in the pit of his groin, and he felt it break loose in spite of his best efforts to stave it off, to make this moment last for eternity. But he was young, too inexperienced with other people handling him so intimately, so carefully. He arched his hips, thrusting into Ron’s fist. The heat rolled through him like a ball of lightning. He spurted through Ron’s fingers, hot and sticky and white, and Ron did not let go—he stroked Harry as he came, coaxing him through the last vestiges of his orgasm. The stark smell of seed pervaded Harry’s senses, along with the sensation of his own warm stickiness. It was only when the spots behind his eyes disappeared that he realized there was something more—a soft pressure on the side of his face. Ron’s lips were against his ear, whispering half-formed words of encouragement: “Yeah…that’s it Harry…there you go…”

He was taking care of him, doing something for him that nobody else would do. Ron had recognized Harry’s secret dread that he would die before ever experiencing something this blissful. And something about that moved that secret thing within Harry’s heart. Moved by this alien gravity, he turned around, finding unknown strength in spite of a body that was still reeling from the aftershocks of pleasure, and pushed Ron back to the grass.

Wide blue eyes stared in shock for a brief moment. Harry took in the sight of Ron, exposed and hard. The snowstorm of need that had eclipsed all other thought was replaced by a moment of clarity. Sheer male ego made Harry grin and say, his eyes fixed on Ron’s cock, “Knew there was a reason your second wand was a fourteen incher, Weasley. It’s even got the same kinda curve.”

A nervous laugh escaped Ron’s lips. “Yeah, well, you sure conjure a messy Patronus, Potter.”

Their eyes met, and they both burst into laughter. For a moment there was nothing more to them than just two best mates ribbing one another, and something in the back of Harry’s mind told him that even after this they would stay that way. Because this wasn’t weird, this wasn’t wrong—this actually made perfect sense for the two of them. They, who shared adventure and heartache and family—why wouldn’t they have this to escape to.

Harry’s fingers weren’t as clumsy as Ron’s as he took his friend’s considerable length in his hand. Perhaps it was because it had been he, Harry, who had secretly wanted this in the first place that he was so assured in his touch. Ron sat propped up on his elbows, watching as if mesmerized by the sight of Harry’s hands on him.

“Feels good,” Ron breathed. “Better than…better than anything…Mmm…better than any wank-off spell, that’s for sure…hey, you ever tried those spells, Harry?” He was talking away whatever discomfiture he was feeling, and Harry knew it. Because that was what Ron did—it was his defense mechanism, inasmuch as stewing in moroseness and lashing out was Harry’s, and dissecting the minutiae of everything there was to learn was Hermione’s. Being able to recognize that, even as he spread his thumb across the rosy crown of Ron’s cock—even as he held Ron’s full balls in his hand with as much reverence as if they really were the family jewels—made Harry feel even closer than physical feeling would allow.

Ron seemed spellbound by Harry’s movements: he ground his hips upward, worrying his lip between his teeth. They could be found—anyone could come up the hill and see them doing this, and inasmuch as that momentary pain when Ron gripped his thigh had sent an unexpected thrill through Harry’s body, the idea of being watched or stumbled upon brought him back to that lightheaded space where there was nothing but feeling and sensation.

“H-Harry,” Ron groaned. “Gonna pop…”

“Yeah,” Harry whispered, glued to Ron’s slick cock as he continued to stroke, “yeah, mate. Do it. Let me see…”

Ron let out half-human, half-animal growl that was all pleasure. He seemed to be forcing himself to stare Harry in the eye as he came, shooting hot seed into Harry’s hand and over his own thighs and stomach, and Harry breathed in that raw scent like it was perfume. Ron collapsed against the grass, arms behind his head. The pearly sheen of his spilled cum glistened against the dark red hairs of his navel. Harry was struck by another thrilling thought, and before he knew what he was doing—before Ron himself even knew what was happening—Harry stooped with his tongue out, lapping at the trail of sticky essence covering Ron’s lower body.

“ _Fuck_!” Ron jumped as if jolted by sudden electricity. The taste of skin and semen melted on Harry’s tongue—salty and warm and musky. Ron let out a long, shuddering breath and said, half-laughing again, “Didn’t think you’d take it that far, mate.”

Harry sat up, licking cum from his fingers. He wiped his lips on the back of his hand and said, with a noncommittal shrug, “Yeah, well, you know me…always needing to show off.”

Ron laughed again, a lazy smile on his face. Harry flopped onto the grass beside him, his senses slowly drifting back as he came down to Earth. Silence fell between them once more, only it was comfortable and contemplative. Once or twice Harry found himself looking sideways at Ron; once or twice he caught Ron doing the same thing, and they would grin at each other as if sharing in some telepathic joke.

It was almost stupid that Harry hadn’t seen this before—that here, in Ron, was somebody he could turn to in this way. He’d bared his soul and his fear when he’d told Ron and Hermione about the prophecy, but this…this was far more. It was almost as if Harry had found something he’d never known he needed before.

Still, as content as he felt, Harry couldn’t quite keep his own anxieties at bay for too long. After several moments of staring up at the summer sky in serene quiet, he rolled onto his side, propped his head on his arm and said, “Er, Ron?”

“Hm?”

“This isn’t _going_ to…y’know…be weird is it?”

Ron snorted, his eyes still closed as if there were no place in the world more comfortable than where he was now. “If it was,” he said, “do you think I’d still be lying here with the sun on me, and you ogling my ghoulies?”

“No. I guess not…”

Sighing, Ron sat up. He looked at Harry in that understanding way—that way that had made him the thing Harry would miss most sorely—that way that had made those painful weeks of distance and resentment between them in Fourth Year all the more unbearable. “Do you _want_ it to be weird?”

“Of course not!”

“Then it isn’t. Harry, you’re…you’re more than my best mate, but I’m not going to be turning poof for you if you get my drift. It’s just…” Ron frowned, his face screwing up in concentration as he thought long and hard for a moment. When there was something important to say, Ron Weasley always chose his words—not like Harry, who had to let his emotions pull him this way and that.

At long last, Ron took a deep breath, looked Harry dead in the eye and said, as easily as if he were discussing the weather, “I love you, Harry. Not like ‘love’ the way that some blokes have together. It’s just that I can’t really think about my life without you, mate. It kills me that you keep putting yourself in that pit—that place where you always think it’s better to be alone, or that you have to die because some rubbish prophecy said so. I want to help. You know that. You’ve always known that. And if this is one of the ways…well, I’m not exactly going to complain. It beats having a toss alone or with one of those shagging spells. It’s okay if it’s you who’s doing it because…well, because like I said, I love you. Plain and simple, right?”

Unable to help himself, Harry smiled, his eyes averted to a spot somewhere near his knee because he was afraid that if he continued to look at Ron any longer that he wouldn’t be able to help himself for another go. “That’s…that’s good to hear. And, I, y’know…I love you too. Does that mean…?”

“Does that mean there’s going to be a round two tonight?” Ron grinned. “ ‘Course it does. Only give me a head’s up first. You don’t know how many times I’ve had people walk in on me in the middle of a wank ‘round here. As fond as Hermione and Ginny are of the idea of two blokes together, I don’t think they’d be able to go without some memory spells if they saw the two of us doing something like this.”

Ron squirmed suddenly. “Christ, this grass really makes your arse itchy after a while.” He got to his feet. “Mind if I head back? Looks like you could go for another helping hand.”

Harry was, in fact, getting hard once more. But he knew it wouldn’t be wise to delay a return to The Burrow. Not with Mrs. Weasley feeling the need to keep tabs on everyone in the house if they were gone longer than half an hour. “I need to wash up again,” Harry said. “Seeing as you didn’t have the decency to clean me off.”

Ron snorted as he walked towards his clothes. “Yeah, well, forgive me for not knowing how far over the line I could step.”

“You can step as far as you want,” Harry blurted out.

Pulling his pants on, Ron smirked and said, “Thanks for the heads up.” Not bothering with his shirt, Ron walked away. He looked over his shoulder several times, smiling as if he couldn’t help it, until eventually the apple trees around the pond swallowed him and he disappeared from sight.

Harry sighed, feeling perfectly at ease for the first time in what may well have been years. Tempting as the idea of waking off once more was, he felt the fire of his hormones ebbing. All he wanted to do was sleep, to savor what it was that Ron had made him feel. It was more than physical—it was safety. Perfect and utter safety with somebody who had been and would always be closer to him than any other. The prophecy didn’t seem so threatening—not if he had Ron there to help him through the pain and the weight of it in any way.

He closed his eyes, and felt himself drifting away, not caring that he was stark naked in the middle of an orchard.

The warm wind gave way to a crisp, death-like chill. The feel of the grass became soft earth. The salty brine of the pond and the sweet perfume of the apple orchard twisted into the earthy smell of decay—of oncoming winter.

Harry didn’t want to open his eyes. He knew the memory was gone, and he dreaded that he wouldn’t be able to get it back again. When he opened his eyes, he would be trapped in the foggy, dying forest, surrounded by the beautiful death that autumn brought to the Earth. And Ron wouldn’t be there—only that empty, aching hole that he’d left when he’d gone out into that rainy night.

Something soft and cold landed against his eyelids. Harry grunted, and forced his eyes open. The fog still spiraled through the dead, reaching limbs of the trees. Snow had started to fall gently from the grey ocean of the sky above.

Hermione would be worried, and as much as he wanted to stay and stew in the memory and mounting wretchedness, he knew it wouldn’t be any good to anyone if he died. Even if he hated to admit it, he had to stay alive, had to hold onto the hope that things would get better…that Ron would come back.

Getting to his feet, he brushed the dirt and dusty snow off. He wasn’t worried about not finding his way back to the tent. Hermione would look for him if he got lost in any event.

Just before he made to retrace his footsteps, he stopped, frozen by a trick of his senses that made his nose prickle. He could smell it again, that unmistakable musk and tang that had been Ron’s own natural scent—like freshly cut grass and skin and something uniquely Ron. Harry turned around, staring through the snow and the trees, hoping that he hadn’t been deceived by his own loneliness.

But there was nothing—nothing but that memory. Even though he felt as if Ron were somewhere close at hand, watching his every move, he knew it would be a waste of time to traipse through the trees in search of his best friend.

Sighing, Harry walked back to the tent, the grasp of autumn the only thing watching him.

**Author's Note:**

> It's been almost a decade since I wrote a Harry Potter fic. All I have to say is that it's nice to come back to this world, especially seeing as how the books were what made me want to be a writer in the first place. Don't forget to leave a kudo and a quick comment if you liked what you read!


End file.
